


Whatever you please

by winteringinrome



Category: Gentleman Jack (TV)
Genre: Ann tops for the first time, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, bossy Anne, historically accurate sleeve plumpers, lots of grubbling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-04
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2020-06-03 13:55:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19465399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winteringinrome/pseuds/winteringinrome
Summary: When my confession is over and I have laid bare to Anne all my past transgressions with Reverend Ainsworth, I feel quite wrung out and weak, like laundry on the line, washed bare and blank. I do not take supper that night and retire to my room as soon as I am able. But I ask Anne to stay...Set post S01 E04. Anne stays the night, looks after Ann and gets looked after herself.Contains a very brief allusion to past sexual assault.





	Whatever you please

When my confession is over and I have laid bare to Anne all my past transgressions with Reverend Ainsworth, I feel quite wrung out and weak, like laundry on the line, washed bare and blank. I do not take supper that night and retire to my room as soon as I am able. But I ask Anne to stay and she sends to Shibden for a bag.

As I sit by my washstand and start to remove the pins from my hair, I can hear the sound of the fire in the grate and Anne moving quietly around in the room next door and feel a stillness and peace in my heart that has been absent since I learned of Mrs. Ainsworth's passing.

“Will you be needing me, ma'am?” Barker, my lady's maid, is at the door.

I turn from the dresser, still half in my thoughts, “Not tonight thank you, Barker.”

“Very good ma'am,” she bobs and backs from the room.

I hear another quiet knock, this time from the door adjoining my room and Anne enters, already in her nightgown, her dark hair in a loose braid down her back. I stand to greet her and she takes me into her arms and kisses me warmly. Her body, normally so upright and formal in her waistcoat and straight skirts, feels strange and yielding against me in so little, while I am still in all my silly ruffles and silks.

She draws away from me, holds me at arm’s length. “Well, Miss Walker,” she says “Let us ready you for bed.”

She turns me gently round, brushes her lips against the nape of my neck and reaches to loosen the tapes that fasten my dress. I find I am trembling already beneath her touch and raise a shaking hand to try and cool the burning of my cheeks. Her hands are steady however, and she makes short work of my dress and belt, letting the lilac silk pool at my feet. Then it is my sleeve plumpers and my stiff petticoats. Finally she unthreads my stays, her long fingers delicate and careful against my back. When the laces are loose enough to remove the bodice, she guides my arms up as tenderly as if I were a child and lifts it over my head.

With great chivalry she then gives me her hand and helps me step from the clothing at my feet, till I stand beside it in only my stockings and my shift. She is being uncommonly gentle with me but I feel her gaze on me then, and there is a heat behind it.

She turns me, draws me to her, so that my back presses against her chest, her arms around my waist, her chin upon my shoulder.

“You were very brave today, Ann,” she says.

I wilt against her. “If I were truly brave I would not have been in this mess-”

“No, no,” she quietens me. “You have nothing to be ashamed of. It is he who should be ashamed, only he. To think that a man in his standing, a man _of God_ \- that he would lay his hands on you, that he would, he would _lie_ with you.” She breaks herself off. Against my back, I can feel her shake. I turn in the circle of her arms tilting my face up to hers and she rests her forehead against mine, “I can hardly bear to think on it, Ann!”

Closing her eyes she rubs her hands over my shoulder and arms, up and down, steadily as though to warm me or brush from me some stain.

Then she leads me to my washstand and sits me on my stool before the mirror. She draws another stool and sits behind me, quite like she is my own lady's maid.

Her fingers comb through my hair, loosening pins and letting down curls until it falls in a golden mass about my shoulders. She gathers it into one hand and tugs gently but insistently, pulling my head back until my throat is bared.

“You are under my protection now,” she says “Under _my_ care. You may trust yourself to me entirely.” And though I expect her words are supposed to calm me, they do quite the opposite and I find myself half roused by them and by the way she tugs my hair, until there is a heat between my legs and a flush rising across my chest.

Her eyes on mine in the mirror, she lowers her lips to my neck and shoulder and kisses me there, quiet and slow. Watching that too, makes my fervour rise and I shiver with desire, glad that the lights are already dim so she will not see the redness of my cheeks.

After a moment, she raises her mouth from my skin and returns her attentions to my hair. She splits the strand into three and with deft fingers braids it into a long plait, which she lifts over my shoulder and places to lay flat and sleek down my front. Her hand hovers there for a moment, the fingers an inch above my collarbone so that I can feel the heat of them through my chemise, and she, surely, can feel the race of my pulse against her palm.

Then her hand, with such teasing slowness that I could faint, alights on me and strokes down, over my nightgown to feel my breast. She cups them first, then squeezes, then her palm skims lightly over the cloth, back and forth, back and forth, until she has brought me into peaks beneath the thin fabric. I watch her hands in the mirror, mesmerised by their clever movements and arching beneath her touch.

“Do you enjoy that?” she murmurs against my neck, “To see yourself under my hands?” My eyes snap up to meet hers in the mirror and my mouth falls open in a little oh of surprise at the... lewdness of it, the lewdness of me watching her and getting hot from it. She is smirking at me, an eyebrow raised. I nod my head shakily and then sink it back to rest against her shoulder, my cheeks flaming.

She tugs at the collar of my chemise then till it falls open and exposes my shoulder and breasts. Her fingers caress and pull me and I hear her breath quicken against my ear. Then her hand slips lower.

Suddenly I am shy of watching us and I turn away from our gasping likenesses in the mirror. I lean back to catch Anne's mouth with my own. Her lips are warm and damp. In time, she draws me round to face her and then we may kiss in earnest, her tongue in my mouth then mine in hers. I find my hands cannot keep still; they must press her hair, her jaw, her slender back. When she pulls away and stands to move to the bed, I stare after her in half a daze, dumbstruck not to have her in my arms.

She laughs at me and lies back on top the sheets, “Come, Anne. Come.” And I stand on trembling legs and stumble after her.

In making my way to the bed, I am suddenly made conscious of the space between my legs, where I am hot and damp from our embraces, and now the movement of my legs and the chemise against me is almost intolerable.

Anne seems to know it for as soon as I am at the bed she pulls me down, turns me so I am on my back and she above me, then slots our hips together so there is at once a wonderful pressure on me. I let out a little cry and she moves faster against me. And where before there was slowness and teasing now there is great urgency, and I cling to her, half mad with pleasure.

She dips her head to mouth my breasts, sucking and kissing and, while still keeping up the pace with her hips, she slides a hand down in between us to pull up my shift. Once it is around my waist, her hand slips down once more and, when she finds me already wet and ready for her, a small groan escapes her lips. She surges forward, pressing one finger inside me to the hilt and it makes me bow beneath her, my back arching.

In York she was very gentle and very kind with me, as though I were some delicate china that might break under her touch. That is over now.

A second finger joins her first and she presses forward, once, twice, then adds a third. I gasp at the stretch of it and feel myself narrowed, funnelled to one single point of focus until it feels as though I have no being, no flesh but at the point at which our two bodies are connected.

Dimly, I am aware of Anne above me, her sighs and her gaze hot on my face as I twist and moan under her ministrations.

“You are mine,” she says low, and I chant back, “I am yours, I am yours.” Oh I am hers.

I feel full of her, a pressure rising to a crisis in me, closer and closer but tormentingly not close enough. She removes her fingers and I am about to let out a noise of protest but she does not take her hand away completely, only moves it up a little. And there, with fingertips still wet from me, she starts up a gentle, insistent rubbing.

It as though a match has been struck, and there is such a tender warmth and pleasure where her fingers are that every touch makes me gasp. The feeling spirals and spreads, coiling out from her fingertips to flare across my groin, my hips, my stomach. I throw my head back and cry out. The flare blazes, and waves of heat course through me and I shake and clench and can barely endure the sweetness and fierceness of it.

When the tremours have finally ceased and I lie still, Anne kisses me and she is quite gentle with me but even through my daze I note her own colour is still high and her breathing ragged. I find myself suddenly ashamed. I think back on our past pleasures and blush to realise how selfish I have been. She has always seemed so satisfied with seeing to me or minding to herself that I find I have quite neglected her. I resolve at once to rectify the matter.

She is still half upon me so I roll us until she is on her back and I above her.

“I should like to…” I say and then stop. “May I…” I laugh and shake my head, not knowing how to express it.

Anne is watching me carefully and for a minute I cannot read her expression. But then she laughs too and her face is open and gallant once more.

“Miss Walker, you may do whatever you please with me,” she says.

Emboldened by that, I lean up on one elbow. I let my fingers trail from her breast down her side to her hip and then across. I rub my thumb gently down the centre of her, first cupping and then pressing a little as I reach the place where she cleaves. The heat of her and the slickness through the cloth makes me gasp. I run my thumb up and down, up and down, feeling her part and give way beneath her clothes. Then the need to feel her skin on mine comes over me like a fever and I pull, with fumbling fingers, the hem of her nightshirt up until it bunches around her hips.

“Ann,” comes from above me, “Ann,” but I scarcely hear her. Without the barrier of clothing, the heat that comes from her is shocking. Sitting up to straddle her thighs, I reach my hand down to dip between the hidden line of her. She is as wet as I am and I am transfixed by the sight of my fingers along her flesh, where my white skin meets the pinkness of hers and begins to glisten and slide. I part the lips and run my fingertip between them, rubbing softly at the point at the top, where she pays such great attention to me. I hear her breath catch above me so I rub again and again and find my own heat rising once more as she grows wetter and her breathing harsher beneath my touch. Then I let my fingers slip down and down until I reach her opening. My fingertip catches and I still.

My eyes flick up then to Anne's face and I find such a strange expression there that I still completely.

“Is this...?” I say haltingly, at once afraid that I have transgressed somehow or displeased her. “Do you, do you care for it like this, Anne?”

Her eyes meet mine and they are heavy lidded and dark, her breathing shallow. When she speaks her voice cracks, “Don't stop,” she shuts her eyes then and her head tilts back on the pillow, “I think I shall die if you stop.”

And there is such lust in her voice, such depth of feeling that I groan and, scarcely able to think with desire, I press my two fingertips into her and watch as the opening gives way beneath them. My fingers slide in to the first knuckle, then the second then my whole fingers are inside her, the ridge of my hand pressed flush against her body. I pull out again, watching as the flesh clings to me and then gives way as I press forward once more.

I am gentle at first, tentative, afraid to be too bold. But Anne reaches down and takes my wrist in her hand and urges me on. “I am not so delicate,” she says to me and laughs breathlessly, “You can treat me with far more firmness than that.” I fall forward then, to hold my weight on one forearm while my other hand works in earnest inside her. My face is tucked into her neck and she kisses fiercely at my jaw, my throat, my collarbone. Forward and back I press my hand into her, and then one time I crook a finger and am met with such a gasp and striving in response from Anne that I do it again.

She is taut as a harp string beneath me now, and her flesh around my fingers flutters. I raise my head and she presses her forehead to mine and our lips touch, not kissing but grazing, our breaths shared. I drive my fingers forward once more, the heel of my hand grinding up against that sensitive spot. She cries out and I press again and again.

I raise myself up so that I can look more clearly upon her face, flushing with heat as I see how she pants for me. There is an expression in her eyes when she looks back at me that is almost reverence and, when she lifts her hand and presses the back of it to her mouth, then her to brow, I see it tremble. And within, where I seek her heat, I feel her tremble too. In the stillness of that moment, I twist my fingers gently inside her, split them open, then twist again, my palm nudging against her all the time. At that her eyes go wide, the pupils black and very large and then, and then, with a cry of surprise, she comes undone beneath me.

There is such pleasure in watching her than I can scarce breathe. Her head tilts back, her lips part and her breast heaves beneath the collar of her nightgown. Her hair has tumbled loose, the colour on her cheeks high. Around my fingertips, I feel her clench over and over. I am wet and trembling just from the sight of her.

But then it is not just the sight. In reaching her climax Anne thrusts herself up in such a way that, where I straddle her leg, her hip nudges up into the tenderest part of me. The sweetness of it makes me press myself down to meet her and, at the same time, I keep pushing my fingers inside of her until we are locked into a mutual rhythm and soon I feel my own climax coming upon me once more. Trembling I press forward, my whole body one tight line along hers as the pleasure wracks through me. Anne's hands come up to clasp my face and we kiss and gasp through the highs of it together and then we kiss again until our shaking subsides.

When we are finally still, I roll and lie on my back beside her, quite boneless. My hand and lap are slick with our pleasures, my limbs shivering from them.

Anne lies looking at the canopy above us for a moment and then reaches out towards the beside table, as though to take hold of something, as though to carry out some task that is habitual to her. But it is my room and my bed and the table has only my trinkets upon it.

So instead she turns back to me, and holds my gaze. She tilts my chin up gently and kisses first my forehead, then each cheek and finally my mouth. There is such tenderness and wonder in it that it makes me want to weep. She rests her head back on the pillow, turned, so we are face to face and smiling says, “I did not know it was possible, for it to be quite so sweet.”

**Author's Note:**

> All underclothing/sleeve-plumper knowledge comes from this [very useful post](https://ellie-valsin.tumblr.com/post/114061970531/1820s-1830s-ladies-undergarments-a-mega-post) by ellie-valsin on Tumblr.


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